The Good of Thorns
by S. Faith
Summary: After so many (positive) upheavals to his life in a very short time, can young Martin take another change? AU.
1. Chapter 1: Unexpected News

**The Good of Thorns**

By S. Faith, © 2016

Words: 11,722  
Rating: T / PG-13  
Summary: After so many (positive) upheavals to his life in a very short time—can young Martin take another change?  
Disclaimer: A certain little boy is all mine, but the others, not so much.  
Notes: The time was right to say hi to Martin again.

* * *

 _"If a sheep eats bushes, does it eat flowers too?"_  
 _"A sheep eats whatever it finds."_  
 _"Even a flower with thorns?"_  
 _"Even a flower with thorns."_  
 _"Then what's the good of thorns?"_

 _—_ _The Little Prince_ _, Chapter 7_

 **Chapter 1: Unexpected News**

 **A Saturday morning in August**

Half noon.

Bridget hadn't realised she'd slept so long. She hadn't meant to, surely, but she'd felt so poorly the previous night, she must have needed it.

As a light knock rapped upon the door again, it occurred to her that it was a previous round of knocking that had roused her awake in the first place. Half-coherently, she managed, "Yes, what, who is it?"

"It's me. Can I come in?"

She blinked a little, smiled, and sat up. At the door was her sweet, adorable son, Martin, whom she had grown to love more than she would have ever thought possible, even before she'd adopted him. "Hold on," she called to him. She pushed the duvet aside, then rose from the bed to slip into her dressing gown and tie it closed. "Okay, come in, sweetheart," she said, sitting again, pushing back to sit against the pillows, pulling the duvet over her legs; as she did, she registered the bed beside her was empty. Not surprising, given the hour, but it did make her wonder where he was. Mark.

The door swung slowly open, and he came in carefully, his voluminous brown curls practically proceeding him. "Oh, you're feeling okay?" he asked, confused and still concerned.

"I'm okay," she said, though she yawned halfway through. "Just a bit run down."

"I thought you were still asleep."

"I was until you knocked."

"I'm sorry," he said. "I was worried you were maybe sick." After a pause, he added, "Dad's worried, too."

"Where is he?"

"He's downstairs," he said. "He's… um. He'll be here soon. I didn't want to wait."

She grinned, holding out her arm. "Come here for a snuggle." He climbed up onto the bed to sit next to her; she leaned and then gave him a big hug.

"You can tell me," she whispered. "Is he making me some tea?"

Martin thought for a moment, then nodded. "He's going to surprise you."

"I'll act surprised," she said. "Your secret's safe with me."

Martin smiled, hugging her more tightly.

"Door's already open. I can't imagine who might have done that," came Mark's voice; he was clearly amused. Martin got off of the bed just as Mark came through the door bearing a tray. "Actually, thank you. It made bringing this in a bit easier."

"Oh, what have you brought up?" Bridget asked, winking to Martin, as sat up straighter against the headboard.

"I made you some tea," he said, placing the tray over her lap. "And something to go with it."

"Oh, you're a doll," she said. The 'something' he'd brought was a plate of biscuits that looked to be made of shortbread, but had a chocolate coating on the bottom. "These look delicious." She looked up to him, the corner of her mouth hinting at a smile. "This is not the healthiest of breakfasts. I'm surprised you're bringing me this."

"I thought you deserved a treat," he said, then sat beside her and leaned to peck her cheek. Placing a hand tenderly on her gently rounded belly, he added, "You both do."

…

They hadn't been trying, but they hadn't _not_ been trying, either.

Shortly after she'd agreed to adopt Martin—and had agreed to marry him—they had discussed the possibility of having children in the future, just to make sure they were on the same page. Fortunately, as she had suspected, her vision of a future sibling for Martin had been close to his own. But it was good to be certain.

"What do you think Martin would think of it?" Bridget had asked, more than once.

"I'm sure he'd love it," he had said, but they hadn't asked Martin, either directly or indirectly, because they didn't want him to obsess over it. And then after that, they hadn't given it much thought, since they'd continued to use preventative measures.

They'd done a civil ceremony (and then had a party) in February—no time like the present, they'd agreed—with close friends and family, in order to make Bridget's adoption of Martin that much easier. Martin had spent the entire day looking like a miniature version of his dad, beaming happily, taking his duty as ring bearer exceedingly seriously.

Mark was just as happy to not have a big to-do. After the fact, Bridget admitted that she had at first felt a bit sad about not having the big fairy-tale wedding, but ultimately had been very happy with how the day had turned out, and very relieved that she hadn't had to deal with the sort of wedding stress that her friends had dealt with.

That was not to say that she hadn't looked absolutely stunning, because the image of her from that day was one that would forever be burned in Mark's brain: a sleek ivory silk dress with very little ornamentation, the lower hem skimming her calves; the matching kitten-heel shoes; a pearl headdress to which had been affixed a soft, sheer veil; hair loose on her shoulders in a cascade of golden curls. Their wedding night had been utter bliss.

And had apparently been when certain seeds had been sown. When the bliss had gotten away from them, and they had been a bit too careless.

 **Late April (four months prior)**

It was in the spring that they first suspected something might be up; or at least, Bridget suspected, as he would later learn. Mark had thought she'd just been run down from overworking herself, as per usual. It was Martin who told him that she'd been "puking all over the place" after he'd left for work, before Martin had left for school—which earned Martin an admonishment not to exaggerate.

"And remember what I said about that word," he reminded.

"You didn't say that, Mum did," Martin corrected, smiling a little, undoubtedly at the recollection of chanting 'puke' at the pictures.

"Fair enough. But it still stands."

"Yes, Dad."

The physician's visit (and subsequent testing) in late April revealed her suspicions to be correct. To not only be a father again, but to have that child with a woman that he loved deeply, that he knew would be as equally invested in parenting their child as he was… he was overjoyed beyond his ability to express it. In fact, she teased him (lovingly, of course) that she'd never seen him quite so speechless before. Rather than talk, he merely brought her to him for a tight, close hug, and a long, tender kiss.

After that glow passed, though, Mark had started to feel apprehensive about telling Martin. He knew that it was not reasonable for him to feel this way, but he also knew Martin well. Before Bridget had come into Martin's life with her unconditional love for him, the boy had not dealt well with change. Mark wasn't entirely sure how much better Martin would deal with it now. His son had adjusted so well to Bridget moving in, to their getting married, but these had been things Martin had been hoping for.

Martin had made it no secret that he had always wanted to know what life was like with a mum. Mark had no idea, however, what his feelings were regarding a sibling. He liked to think—he hoped—that the security that Bridget provided would help buffer any apprehension Martin might feel upon learning the news.

Mark knew the only thing to be done about it was to tell him, but they decided not to tell anyone just yet, to be on the safe side.

 **Mid-May (three months prior)**

"Martin," said Mark almost immediately after dinner as he rose from the table. Given what they were about to tell the little boy, Mark was nervous, and it was evident in the low, moderated tones of his voice. "Come with us to the sitting room. We have something important to tell you."

"Oh?" Martin asked. Equally evident was Martin's anxiety in that one syllable, so Bridget did her best to soothe him.

"It's all right," she said, standing then crouching by where Martin still sat at the table. "It's nothing bad, and you've done nothing wrong."

"Oh, no, of course not," added Mark, seeming to realise belatedly how serious he'd sounded. "In fact, it's very, very _good_."

Now Martin seemed confused, and Bridget didn't blame him; his father's demeanour paired with those words were disconcerting. "Okay, I guess," he said, taking Bridget's lead and standing while she rose to her full height. "Are we going on a holiday?" he asked them as they went to the sofa. "Oh! Are we going to Disney?"

Bridget smiled as she sat. "As fun as that sounds, we unfortunately are not." Mark sat beside her and perched Martin on his lap, facing her, the better to talk to both of them without feeling intimidated.

Bridget turned to meet his eyes. They had agreed he would speak to Martin first, but Mark didn't seem to be saying anything. She prodded him gently on the arm, which seemed to prompt him, but he sounded like he was about to present an argument in court:

"The last year has been…" He faltered, and when he spoke again, his voice was decidedly softer. "Martin, our lives—yours and mine—have changed a lot since that day last spring when a certain _someone_ read you a certain _book_ at a certain _party_."

"Yeah," said Martin, looking to Bridget with a beaming smile; she marvelled at just how little actual time had passed since then. "Mum."

At last Mark offered a smile; Bridget reached to place a hand over the boy's. "Never thought _that_ book of all books would be the one to change my life, but here we are," she said.

"I know you've been really happy," Mark continued, directed at Martin, who nodded. "I think we all have been."

"Yes," said Bridget. "We've become a pretty happy family. Don't you think?"

Martin nodded. "Yeah."

"What would you think," Mark said, "if I told you our family was going to be getting bigger?"

Martin's smile disappeared—in fact, his features went slack—and his eyes went wide. "Bigger?" he asked in a reverent whisper. "Oh! Are we going to get a puppy?"

Bridget bit down on her lower lip to keep from laughing.

"I hate to disappoint you, son," Mark said, fighting a chuckle, too, "but no, not a puppy."

"A kitten?"

"It's not a pet," said Bridget gently. "How would you feel about being a big brother?"

At this question, his brows came together. "A big brother?" he echoed.

Bridget nodded. "In just a few months time, we'll be bringing home a baby."

"Oh!" Martin looked to Mark again. "Dad, are you gonna have more adoption meetings?"

"No, Martin," he said. " _Mum_ is going to have the baby."

Bridget placed her free hand on her abdomen. "The baby's very small now, but it's there. Remember when I was—" Her gaze flicked to Mark as a smile quirked the corner of her mouth. "—puking all the time in the morning? That was because the baby was settling in. I didn't know yet that I was pregnant."

"Pregnant?" he repeated. "A baby's in your belly?"

She nodded. "I know you've seen ladies at the shops with really big bellies, right?" She mimed a full, round stomach. "That'll be me soon."

"But how did it get in there?" he asked; Mark couldn't stop his face flushing bright red. Then Martin looked horrified: there was, after all, only one way he knew of to get something into one's stomach. "Oh my gosh. Did you _eat it_?"

"No," Mark answered quickly.

"And how does the baby even get out?"

"Martin, suffice it to say, a full explanation—"

"It's something we'll talk about when you're a bit older," Bridget cut in before Mark could start sounding like a lawyer again. "Anyway, the 'how' doesn't matter right now. The 'why' is because parents like your dad and me… they love each other."

Martin looked a little shell-shocked, to be honest, and didn't say a word for too long.

"What do you think, Martin?" prompted Mark, placing a hand on his shoulder. "Are you okay?"

He nodded slowly. "I like that I wouldn't be the littlest anymore," he said thoughtfully. "And maybe I can help watch like with Constance and Harry… oh, would I have to share my room, or give my cars to him?"

"No, there are enough rooms in this house to go around," Mark said. "And of course, you _should_ always share—"

"Hello, the baby _could_ be a girl," Bridget said, reminding them both of the alternative, as she patted her stomach again protectively. "I rather hope it is, as I won't feel quite so outnumbered." She went serious again. "I'm sure this is a surprise and a shock to you, but I really do hope you're happy, deep down inside. Because I think you'll make a really, really fantastic big brother."

Martin nodded, at last smiling broadly, popping up off of Mark's lap to throw his arms around her neck and kiss her on the cheek. Mark came closer to hug the both of them; she felt her husban's hand on the back of her head, felt his kiss on her cheek. Her relief was immense, and she knew his own was too.

"I'm so glad you're happy, Martin," he said softly. "We'll just have a bigger, happier family."

When the embrace broke after many warm moments, Mark reclined in the seat, but Martin simply reared back and looked down at her stomach. "I don't see anything. It looks the same right now."

"Yep. It's only been there a little over three months now."

"Did you ever have a baby before?"

"Nope," she said, smiling. "You're my one and only son right now."

"But did I really come out of a _belly_ —?"

"Later," Mark said firmly. " _Much_ later."

"Do Gran and Grandpa know?" he asked. "Or Grandma Pam or Grandpa Colin?"

"Not yet," said Mark. "We wanted to tell you first."

"Can I tell them?"

Bridget met Mark's gaze. He knew exactly what she was thinking: that she would never hear the end of it from her mother if Mark's parents learnt first, but it wasn't fair to the Darcys to be second-fiddle. "Why don't we ask them down for Sunday lunch, tell them that Martin has some big news to share?" Mark asked, winking.

Brilliant as usual, that Mark. But… "Won't they be suspicious at all the secrecy?"

"They might," he said, "but they won't care about the secrecy once they hear the news."

She couldn't help another smile. "I love you," she said, then ran her hand over Martin's unruly hair. "Both of you."

Martin grinned; Mark leaned forward again to embrace them both. "Love you too," Mark said, kissed his son on the crown of his head, and his wife on the lips.

 **Saturday morning, mid-August (present)**

After eating the tea and biscuits, Bridget seemed to be feeling a bit better, and announced to the both of them that she'd have a nice hot shower to freshen up then would be down in a little while. Mark took that as his cue to retreat. "I'll leave you to it," he said, then placed his hand on Martin's shoulder. "Come on, I think the match is on," he said to his son.

Martin bounded out the door, and Mark turned to follow, but felt Bridget clasp his hand. He turned to her. "Thank you for that," she said.

"You're the one doing all the hard work for this baby," he said, pulling her into his arms; there was no denying that she was big enough now to come between them, at least a little bit. "Least I can do is bring you tea and biscuits."

"I appreciate every last crumb," she said. "Martin's been wonderful, too. So curious about what's going on inside me." She tightened her embrace. "I don't know what I'd do without you."

"You wouldn't be up the spout, for one," he teased, then drew back to kiss her before releasing the embrace. "I'd better get down there before—"

"Dad!" came Martin's voice up the stairs. "Come _on_! It's on!"

They both laughed low in their throats. "As I was saying," he said. "See you down there in a bit."

He heard the shower taps come on as he was midway down the staircase and he smiled. He continued down; as he got closer, he heard the match was already on. When he joined Martin at the sofa, he saw that Martin had already gotten a bowl of crisps for them and a bottle of bitter for his dad.

"I got that for you," Martin said; he held a juice box in his own hand, from which he then took a sip.

"Thank you, Martin," he said. "That was very considerate of you."

"I figured you might want it," he said.

He opened the beer. "I appreciate it."

"Well, when you take care of Mum, someone has to take care of you," Martin opined.

"We all take care of each other, don't we?" Mark added. He sat back, had a long draw off of the beer, thinking again of Bridget's bigger stomach. "We'll have to take extra care of Mum once the baby comes."

Martin looked thoughtful. "She'll have to take a lot of care of the baby."

"There are only some things she'll be able to do," he said. "But we can help with the rest."

"Hmm," he said. "She'll still take care of me, too?"

"Of course she will," Mark said. "But you're older, and there's a lot more you can do for yourself. Babies are small and pretty helpless at first."

"They can't walk or talk," Martin said, with an air of enlightenment. "I know."

"So you understand."

The action on the pitch went into high gear and the two of them were sucked in to the match; he loved that Martin had taken such an interest in the sport, and it gave them something over which to bond. Then came the half-time break, which Martin used to visit the loo. "Going to see how Mum is doing," he called to Martin. "I'll be right back, all right?"

"Okay," he called back.

When he got upstairs, he found that instead of having had a shower, she had drawn a bath, and she was floating peacefully amidst mounds of bubbles. He smiled; he could only see her face, breasts and her pregnant stomach.

She opened her eyes. "Hi."

"I bet you're nice and relaxed now," he said, sitting on the side of the bathtub.

"Mm-hm," she said, then sat up, bubbles sliding down over her body. "Thanks for this," she said. "Work's been such a bear lately. Are you enjoying the match?"

"Very much. Martin had a bitter for me and a bowl of crisps waiting for us when I went down."

She smiled broadly. "What a sweetheart."

Mark nodded, recalling their interaction downstairs, thinking of Martin's questions about the baby. "He's asking more questions about how things will be when the baby's here," he said, at her inquisitive expression. "I think that ever since it's become more obvious there's really something in there, he's curious."

"He keeps asking to touch my belly," she said. "I let him, because he asks so sweetly every time, but I told him there's really not much to feel yet." She sighed. "I'm so glad he's happy about this," she said.

"You and me both," he said. "Well, I should get back to the match before he starts calling for me again. Will you be joining us soon? Do you want a proper lunch?"

"Oh, yes, a sandwich would be lovely. Thank you."

When he went back, Martin had topped up the crisp bowl. "It's about to come back on," he said.

"I'll be there in a few," he said. "Just going to make Mum a little something more to eat, since the biscuits weren't really enough. Do you want anything?"

"No thanks." His eyes were already fixed on the screen.

He was just finishing with the final touches on her lunch when she appeared on the lower floor. "Oh, that looks marvellous," she said, putting an arm around him as he stood at the kitchen counter. "Thank you."

"Of course, darling," he said. He reciprocated the quick hug and kissed the top of her head, then handed her the plate. "Orange juice?"

"Sure."

"I'll bring it over."

Martin asked for some too, which he was happy to oblige. Such a mundane, ordinary Saturday, watching a football match with his two favourite people in all the world, but he wouldn't have traded it for all the world.

 **Mid-October (one month to go)**

"I'm going to go mental."

It was the first day of Bridget's maternity leave, and Bridget was not at all thrilled at the prospect of sitting at home all day alone.

"You'll be fine," Mark said. "Perhaps you could take up crochet?"

She glared at him.

"It's not like it's, oh, enforced bed rest," he went on. "You can put the finishing touches on the baby's room. Oh. You can write that novel you've always wanted to do."

"I'll have to do _something_ to make me forget that it feels like I have a boulder resting on my bladder."

At that he looked extremely sympathetic, and he reached to take her hands. "Do whatever you need to do to be comfortable," he said. "I won't be working too much longer, and I'll be home, too."

"We can go mad together," she said wryly.

She saw him off to work with a kiss, then went with him as he said goodbye to Martin, and to check on how Martin was doing preparing for school. She was surprised that he was not dressed. In fact, he was still in bed.

"Martin," Mark said, "what's going on?"

His little voice came out muffled from under his duvet. "I don't feel good," he said.

"Go on to work," she said quietly to Mark. "I'll deal with this."

Mark sat on the side, pulling back the duvet, and kissing him on the forehead. "Hope you're feeling better," he said. "I'll see you later."

"Bye, Dad," said Martin in a small voice.

Once Mark had gone, Bridget went over to the bed and sat on the edge. "What's the matter?" she asked; she placed the back of her hand against his forehead and cheek to feel for a fever, but did not find one. "Does your stomach hurt?"

After a pause, he nodded.

"I'm sorry, sweetheart," she said, brushing his hair back with her fingers. "Let me give your school a call, and then I can… make you something to eat." She placed her hand against her lower back. "Do you think you might be well enough to go to the sofa downstairs? I don't know that I can make the trip up and down the stairs so many times with—ugh." She stopped abruptly as the baby kicked hard.

He nodded again. "Sure."

She made her way down the stairs, trailing behind Martin, who was taking the stairs two at a time. "Slow down there, buddy, or you're going to puke," she said. He did as she asked. _Must not be feeling too bad_ , she mused.

He crawled into the sofa and pulled a blanket over himself; she, meanwhile, rang the school to excuse Martin for the day. When she was done, she went to the kitchen area, intent on making him breakfast, a nice oatmeal that would help to settle his stomach.

"Ooh, can you make eggs and sausage?" he asked.

She stopped mid-pour of the quick oats. The thought of eggs and sausage links was making her queasy, and she didn't even have a upset stomach. Was it possible that he was faking to stay home? If so… why? He had never done such a thing before in his life. "Not today," she said.

"Can I watch some cartoons?"

"Best to not get yourself all worked up when you're sick," she said.

"Promise 'll keep the volume down low," he said.

She pondered the alternative—that he might want her to read _The Little Prince_ , and she didn't have the energy to go all of the way back to his room to get the book—so she agreed. "Very low," she said. "All right."

She switched on the kettle then found the orange marmalade, which he always liked a little on top. She poured some orange juice for him and a little for herself, then when the kettle boiled and switched itself off, she mixed up his oatmeal, added a dollop of marmalade, then brought it to him.

"Thank you," he said as she put the tray over his lap.

"Of course," she replied, then added, thinking how Mark had just been reminding Martin how to properly reply to being thanked, "you're welcome."

"Mum?" he asked, looking away from the television to her, sounding sad; she did not think he was faking that. "Do you think that you could sit with me a bit?"

"Of course," she said. "Just let me get something to eat, and I'll come right back." After a pause she said, "When we're both done, how about I sit with you on the sofa there for a snuggle?"

He smiled broadly. "Yes, please."

She came back with another bowl of oatmeal for herself, watching Martin watching the cartoons. He looked totally normal, totally happy. Back to his old self. After they both finished, he sat up, and she rested along the back of the sofa. He cuddled up to her, paying no further mind to the cartoons.

"Can I…?" he asked tentatively, his hand over her rounded belly.

"Of course, sweetheart," she said, "though I always appreciate that you ask."

He beamed a smile, then placed his palm against her. "How long 'til the baby comes out?" he asked.

"About a month," she said, then chuckled. "Actually, the due date is on _our_ birthday. The ninth. Isn't that funny?"

Martin looked dismayed, as if he didn't find it funny in the slightest. "Oh."

She waited for him to say more, watching his features, then asked, "Is something wrong, Martin?"

After a very short hesitation, he shook his head.

"Martin, you can tell me anything, remember?"

"I know," he said, but nothing more was forthcoming. He laid his head down on her shoulder, his gaze directed at her belly still, his hand resting on he stomach. She leaned forward and kissed him on the top of his head, then rested her chin there. She was feeling a novel sensation regarding Martin: confusion and concern.

…

Lunch meetings with colleagues or potential or on-going clients were standard and routine in Mark's line of work, and this Monday was no different. Today it was with both, so that Mark might bring his client, Joseph Clint, up to speed on where things stood, and introduce him to Giles Benwick, who would be taking over the case for Mark when he went on parental leave in two weeks' time.

They had just placed their orders and were settling in with drinks when he caught the scent of a perfume he had not smelled in several years; the memories that this perfume evoked were not happy ones, as it was one that his ex-wife used to wear. Involuntarily he sat up a little straighter and began to look around for the possible source, which he knew was ridiculous as it was not an uncommon perfume, and as far as he knew, she hadn't been in London in many years.

And yet.

She turned her head ever so slightly as she passed by the table, and he knew it was her in an instant. He knew that profile, and her hair—a sleek bob—had not changed all that much since he'd last seen her. She appeared to be leaving the restaurant, with her handbag on her shoulder and a smile on her face directed towards her male companion. Once did she turn her gaze his way, but he didn't think she saw him; at least, her expression did not betray her if she did.

Mark felt paralysed in place, felt the breath catch in his throat, as he watched her disappear from sight. Not because he realised he still had feelings for her—far from it—but because the possibilities began to multiply in his mind. Notably, would she try making contact with Marin? Would she try inserting herself in his life? How would he tell Bridget without further adding to her stress?

"Mark, mate, you all right?"

He looked quickly to Giles, then to Joseph. "Yes, I'm so sorry," he said, clearing his throat and taking a long sip of his wine. He had to keep himself together and get through the meeting. "Now, what was the question?"

Giles looked at him; it was clear that he did not believe Mark, but was not about to press the matter in front of a client. "I was just wanting confirmation that the next court date is two weeks from today," Giles said.

"Yes, that is correct, and you'll be taking the reins." He turned to Joseph. "Here's where we are so far."

With this refocusing, Mark was able to get through the remainder of the lunch meeting, keeping himself on task more than adequately well. They parted ways at the conclusion, Joseph heading down the street in one direction, and Giles and Mark in the other towards the waiting car.

"Nothing wrong with Bridget, is there? The baby?"

"Oh, no, she's fine. They both are," he said with a smile. "Today's her first day of leave. She claims she's going to go stir crazy." He sighed. "I am a little worried about Martin. He seemed to be feeling unwell this morning. I should ring home to see how that turned out."

"I could see why your mind's elsewhere," said Giles, as they reached the car. "Are you sure you don't want to start your leave sooner?"

"It'll be fine," he said. He was relieved that Giles wasn't going to further press with questions. "Let's get back to chambers."

Once back in his office, Mark dialled Bridget's mobile, but got voice mail; he rang the house number, but she didn't pick that up either. He was puzzled until a few minutes later when his phone began to buzz with her return call.

"Hey," she said before he had a chance to say anything. "Martin and I were napping and I couldn't get to the phone fast enough, and foolishly, I left my mobile upstairs. Just sent him up for it. Everything okay?"

"Was about to ask the same of you," Mark said. "And Martin. I take it he stayed home?"

"He did. He said he had a sore stomach, but…" she trailed off, and in speaking again her voice had gone very quiet. "I don't think he was sick at all."

Mark drew his brows together. Was she suggesting he was feigning illness? "Why would he say he was when he wasn't?" he asked.

"Not sure," she said. "He seemed to just want me to sit with him. Which was fine; sitting was about all I was up for today." She was silent a moment more before adding, "It's going to be a very, _very_ long month, Mark."

He thought about Giles' comment, regarding starting his leave earlier. It was starting to seem like a better and better idea. "I know, darling," he said. "I'll do whatever I can to make it easier."

"I know." She paused a moment before continuing. "Love you. See you later."

He put down the phone, and resolved to wrap up as much as he could, as soon as he could. It was one thing he _could_ do to make it easier for her.

With that focus and determination he was able to get to the end of his work day, and it wasn't until he was on his way home that the disturbing occurrence earlier that day came rushing back to him. What he'd seen at lunch, or more precisely, whom.

He was going to have to tell Bridget. Not that he would want to keep anything from her—because he certainly didn't—but the fact was that it would be impossible for him to do so in front of Martin. He was determined to get through the evening maintaining an appearance of normalcy, and then afterwards, he could broach the subject.

"Hi, Dad!" said Martin upon his entering the downstairs sitting room where he and Bridget were watching a film together. The boy got up and went over to him as Bridget paused the film; Mark noticed it was the very first one they had ever taken him to see together.

"Hey, Martin," he said as he crouched to hug his son; he was not sure from where all of this affection was coming, but he welcomed it all the same. "Feeling better, I see?"

Martin nodded. "Lots better."

He looked over towards Bridget, who had nothing to offer but a little shrug.

"I'm glad for it," he said, rising to his full height. "And you? How are you doing, darling?"

"Pretty well, actually," she said. "Since Martin's recovered from his stomach bug, he's been taking care of me for most of the day."

Mark smiled, glancing down to Martin, who looked proud of himself. "Well done, Martin," he said. He looked to Bridget again; she looked so flat, not like her usual bubbly self. "But you're really okay?"

"I'm fine. Just tired, but after today, so much better than I have been feeling. I guess beginning my leave now was a good idea, after all."

He went to sit beside her on the sofa, near her knees. "Have some good news," he said. "I'll be starting my own leave earlier than expected, so that I can help out around here."

"Do all the stair-climbing, more like," she said with a grin, hinting towards how much better she felt. "When?"

"Not tomorrow," he said, "but Wednesday."

"Can I stay at home and take care of Mum tomorrow?" Martin asked.

"As much as I appreciate your care," she said, "you need to go to school."

"I must agree," Mark said. "You did a nice job today but she'll be able to take care of herself tomorrow."

"I am feeling better, sweetie," Bridget added. "Come here."

Martin came to sit next to her on the sofa, too, close enough to accept the hug she offered. So much preparation had been made for the baby's arrival that they had both tried very hard to make sure Martin still had their attention, too. Mark reached forward and patted Martin's shoulder.

Bridget smacked a comically loud kiss onto Martin's cheek, then pushed herself upright. Martin, giggling, stood up. "All right, I suppose we should do something about dinner, shouldn't we?" she asked as she got to her feet, bracing her lower back with her hands.

"Pasta is nice and quick," said Mark.

"I'm good at making pasta," said Martin.

"Go find the package of fettuccine," Mark said. Martin scampered towards the pantry. To Bridget he said quietly, "So you don't think he was sick?"

She shook her head. "I'm starting to think he knew I was going to be home on my own today, and wanted to be here, too," she said. "It was very sweet of him."

"But he shouldn't be faking sickness to do it," he said. "We'll have to have a little chat with him about his antics today."

She nodded. "I can talk to him, if you want, since I think he thought I needed the help."

"Sounds good."

"Found it!" cried Martin as he stood, package of pasta in hand triumphantly.

"Good job," Mark said. To Bridget he said, "Go on and sit. Martin and I can handle this."

"I have every confidence."


	2. Chapter 2: Unexpected Changes

**The Good of Thorns**

By S. Faith, © 2016

Words: 11,722  
Rating: T / PG-13  
Summary, Disclaimer, Notes:: See Chapter 1.

* * *

 **Chapter 2: Everything Changes**

 **Mid-October (cont.)**

Bridget watched Mark moving around the kitchen with ease, instructing Martin to do this little task or that, and she smiled. There was a time Mark couldn't find the plates in that kitchen. The scene warmed her heart and eased her mind; he had seemed distracted when she'd spoken to him earlier that day, but whatever it had been had apparently passed.

After whipping together a pot of tomato sauce (Mark) and grating a plate of parmesan (Martin), Mark directed Martin to lay out some plates and silverware. Unfortunately, one of the plates slipped from the pile and crashed to the ground, shattering into countless pieces. Instantly, inexplicably, Martin burst into tears.

"It's all right," she said, getting to her feet to go to him, as Mark went around to get the broom and dustpan. "Accidents happen."

"I know," he said between his tears, clearly frustrated. She handed him a tissue. "I can do lots of things a b—" he began, but stopped himself, making Bridget wonder what he had been about to say.

"You do lots of things very well," she said. She didn't know quite why he was so upset; she patted the top his head, smoothing down the curls, in lieu of crouching for a hug. "Really, it's okay. And to be honest," she said in a conspiratorial tone, "I think we have too many of those boring white plates, anyway."

At this, Martin cracked the smallest of smiles.

"Really, Martin, don't fret about it," Mark said kindly. "If you'd go and get another plate, dinner is ready."

"I'll get it," Bridget said. "You can set out the forks."

By the time they actually sat down to eat, Martin's spirits were restored, and he regaled his father with a list of everything they had done that day with more smiles and giggles. After dinner, Martin helped to clean up, and when it was time for bed, he went without fuss to go and wash up for bed.

"I've got my mobile… my diary… if I leave anything down here—"

"I'll come back down here for it for you, don't worry," said Mark, slipping his arm around her waist.

"I have really begun to hate the levels in this house," she said as they began the trek up the stairs.

"I know, darling, and I'm sorry," he said. "If it were possible to get a lift installed…"

She couldn't tell if he was joking or not.

She peeked into Martin's room to see the nightlight glowing, to see he had already tucked himself in.

"Night, Mum," he said to her. She came in, sat on the bed, and bent to give him a goodnight kiss.

"Night, my dearest Martin." She sat up and combed her fingers through his curls. "Thank you for everything today," she said tenderly, "but I have a question for you about your stomach ache." She paused a moment, then asked, "You didn't really have one, did you?"

He seemed to know the jig was up. He shook his head. "Don't be angry with me."

"I'm not," she said, "but you can't just say you're sick to stay home whenever you want to. Remember the story about the boy who cried wolf?"

"Yes."

"You should absolutely say so when you're sick, so you can stay home, rest, and not pass it to your classmates," Bridget said, "but if you start to say you're sick all the time…"

"You're not gonna believe me," he supplied. "I get it. I'm sorry. And I'm glad you're not angry."

"Not angry," she said. "Just don't do it again."

He nodded again. "I won't. I promise."

"Good boy." She leant and kissed his head again. "Night-night."

"Night, Mum."

She met Mark just outside the door; he had clearly heard it all. "You're such a pro at this being-a-mum thing," he said quietly.

She felt unreasonably proud of herself. "Go on and kiss your son goodnight so we can get to bed."

She brushed out her hair, cleaned her teeth, and donned her nightgown. Mark joined her momentarily, heading for the sink to wash up for the night. She got into bed, settled in beneath the sheets, and within a few moments he returned and began to strip down out of his clothing. She realised just then how tired he looked, too. He must have really pushed himself that day in order to be able to start his leave a week and a half sooner than planned.

When he slipped in beside her, she wasted no time curling up to him, planting a kiss on his lips. "That," she said, "is to thank _you_ for being so amazing."

"Amazing?" He looked truly bewildered. "Well, I'm humbled, but thank you for that."

"I couldn't have asked for better support," she said. "Nothing about what's coming feels too scary, because I know I'll have you." She laughed lightly. "And Martin."

"It's my pleasure," he murmured, raising a hand to cup her face tenderly, then kissed her at length, folding her into his arms.

It was the best way to end a day, bar none.

When she woke the next morning, she found that Mark had already left; she found a note at her bedside, in which he said he couldn't bear to wake her, to have a nice day, and to take it easy again that day: "Watch your _Pride and Prejudice_ , if you must force yourself to stay settled down." She laughed and set it aside. He must have also done the school run.

Indeed, she was very grateful for his support. For him.

She showered and dressed, then looked around the room to gather up all of the things she would need, so that she wouldn't have to make another trip upstairs. When she reached the foyer, she noticed that the post had come, and she lowered herself to scoop it up from the floor. They appeared to be the usual postal fare—solicitations, statements, bills—save for one curious silver-grey envelope. It was addressed to Mark, and was in a hand that she did not recognise. She couldn't even quite tell if the printing on the front was done by a man or woman, and there was no return address to speak of. It wasn't his birthday, and she didn't think they'd receive well-wishes for the baby addressed just to him.

It was curious, but she would just ask him about it when she spoke to him next. She placed it all on the sideboard table there in the foyer to deal with later, then continued down to the lower level to where the telly was.

After getting through the first half of the mini—because she would have been foolish to turn down a suggestion of his—she decided to ring Mark to find out about whether she should get Martin from school.

"No, I've asked Alberta if she wouldn't mind helping out again on a part-time basis," he said. He sounded harried, distracted. "She's going to do the school run today. Hope that's okay."

"Oh, that's fine," she said. She liked Alberta and would be glad to see her again. "Thanks for taking care of that."

"Of course."

"Oh, by the way," she said, "you got something by post today."

"Oh?" he asked. "What is it? Who's it from?"

"No idea," she replied. "And I can't tell. It's a small thing, like a notecard."

He didn't say anything. "Hmm," he said. "How strange. Well, why don't you just go ahead and open it?"

"It's upstairs, and I'm not. I can go and get it if you really want."

"No, not necessary," he said. "We'll have a look later then."

"Okay," she said. "Until then."

…

Mark put down the phone, letting out a long breath. He had not let on how much the mention of this mysterious envelope had rattled him, on the heels of spotting his ex-wife a day prior. His opportunity to talk to her after Martin had gone to sleep had not come to be, for once he was in bed and holding her in his arms, he had no desire to shatter the peace by mentioning it then.

He had a feeling the envelope was connected somehow to the sighting. It would be too odd a coincidence otherwise.

As the morning passed into early afternoon, Mark became increasingly anxious. If the envelope had been from her, he did not want Martin to see it, because he would assuredly ask what it was. He decided then to wrap up his final day and leave for home earlier than he'd originally planned.

The moment he stepped through the front door, he knew his suspicions had been correct. He knew the handwriting instantly. He set down his briefcase and immediately pulled open the envelope.

 _Mark,_

 _I had hoped my trip into London would not come to your notice, but I saw you as assuredly as you saw me. Just wanted to let you know—because I know this will concern you—that I am not going to show up on your doorstep in some mad attempt to assert the maternal rights I'd surrendered. I have no interest in taking on that role now, and I would not wish to disrupt your life or his in such a way. Rest easy; you may think me a monster to have done what I did, but I'm not_ _that_ _much of a monster._

 _Saw a blurb in_ _Tatler_ _that you have remarried, and are expecting a child with her soon. My sincerest congratulations. I hope that you are all well._

 _T._

He exhaled sharply, then folded the note in half again and slipped it back into its envelope. It could have been worse, he supposed, such as the scenario she had herself described. He was brought back only to the present at the sound of his name coming from downstairs. He couldn't not show her. He needed to do it now. He shed his mack, slipped out of his shoes, and unbuttoned his suit jacket as he descended the stairs.

"Christ, Mark, who died?"

This was the first thing she said when she saw him.

"Why are you home so early?" she continued from her seat on the sofa. "Not that I'm not glad to see you…" She saw the envelope in his hand, and pushed herself forward to try to stand up. "What's going on?"

"Don't get up," he said, then sat beside her. He held up the envelope. "Before you read this, I want you to know that I had every intention of telling you about this last night. With everything that was going on with Martin, though, and then once we were in bed…"

Her features clouded over. "Mark, you're scaring me."

"When I was with Giles and the client at the lunch meeting yesterday… I saw her."

"Who?"

He pursed his lips. "My ex-wife," he said quietly, as if his son could possibly hear. "Martin's biological mother."

"No," Bridget said; she sounded breathless, but genuinely panicked. "I thought she didn't live in London."

"I don't think she does."

"Oh, God," said Bridget. Tears welled in her eyes. He knew what was going through her mind. Her thoughts were assuredly with Martin.

"I didn't think she saw me, but…." He sighed.

"She's not here to…" Bridget began, trailing off.

"No," he said.

"How do you know?" She placed her hands protectively on her rounded belly. "Maybe she's thought long and hard about this over the years. Maybe she's had a change of heart. There's no _way_ I could turn my back on our baby."

 _You are a vastly better woman than she is_ , thought Mark. He held the note out to her. "I think this note will assuage your concerns."

She took it, pulled the paper out, read the brief paragraphs, then read them again. Then she looked up to him.

"She's not coming here," said Bridget.

"No."

"She's not taking Martin away."

"Even if she tried," Mark reminded, "she doesn't have any right to do so."

She sighed in relief, then leaned forward and put her arms around him. "I wish you'd said something to me yesterday," she said, then began sobbing into his shoulder.

"I didn't want to add to your stress," he said quietly, returning the embrace. "I hated to see you look like this, even just for thirty seconds."

They sat in this tight embrace until they started to hear noises from the upstairs floor; Alberta was home with Martin. Bridget pushed Mark away with unexpected brusqueness, but he understood.

"Oh, God. I feel like we need to burn this," she said, the note crumpled and dampened in her hand. "I don't want Martin to see it. It'd upset him."

"I don't like keeping anything from him," Mark said, "but on this I would agree." He took the note back from her and shoved it into his jacket pocket, getting to his feet just as Martin and Alberta came downstairs.

"Oh, Mr Darcy," said Alberta. "I didn't expect to see you."

"I didn't expect to be here," Mark said.

"Was going to make Martin a snack—and Mrs Darcy, too, if she wants one."

"Everything okay?" asked Martin, furrowing his fine brows.

"Yes, just fine, except that I would like a big hug from you," said Bridget.

As Martin went over to his mum, Mark caught Alberta's eye; he could tell she had questions. Mark mouthed the words, "It's okay." She nodded, accepting his word at face value.

"I'll make you snacks, then," Alberta said quietly, then went into the kitchen.

"Were you crying?" Martin asked as he sat beside her and put his arms around her.

"A little," she said, "but hormones—well, because of the baby, the silliest things make me cry."

"Oh," said Martin. "I'm sorry."

"It's okay," she said, clasping the back of his head to hold him close, tears starting fresh. "I'm all right now."

 **9 November**

She knew Martin was disappointed. She was disappointed, too. Life as he'd come to know it had been interrupted, and it had been taking its toll on him; she had never seen him act out as he had been doing, leaving his toys out, not putting his dirty clothes in the bin, not eating his vegetables in full. She understood even though these actions tested her patience to the limit. They had been testing them both.

Because of her size, the discomfort caused by too much walking so close to the due date meant they couldn't do anything special for their joint birthday as they'd done the year before. The Darcys and the Joneses had come up for lunch the weekend before, but on the birthday itself, they had to be content only with searching for the prince's planet through the skylight from the lowest level of the house. While Mark made preparations in the kitchen, she and Martin were situated on the sofa in the darkened sitting room, looking up towards the night sky.

"I'm so sorry we can't do a proper birthday party," Bridget said. "But we have cake, and party hats, and sparkling apple juice."

"And candles to blow out," added Martin.

She smiled at him. "My candles might set off the smoke alarm."

"So when does the baby show up?" Martin asked. "Wasn't today the due day?"

"The due date is just a guess," she said. "Could happen sooner, could happen later."

"Oh."

"A lot has to happen before the baby shows up," she said. "so I'm going to guess that it's not going to happen today."

"Oh," Martin said again, though she caught him smiling. She guessed that he was pleased to not give up that special shared birthday with her. Maybe that had been the source of his frustration. Everything about when the baby arrived was far beyond anyone's control, but especially his.

"Have you had any luck, Martin?" Mark called. She knew that he referred to seeing the prince's planet.

"No," Martin called back, looking up again, clearly disappointed. "It's too cloudy to see anything."

"There's always next year," said Bridget, reaching over to ruffle his hair.

"Here we are," said Mark, coming closer, bearing a tray; on it sat a small round vanilla cake with vanilla frosting that bore eight candles, and a smaller, specially frosted large cupcake (from the same patisserie that made the cake) with a single candle coming up. Mark had already lit the candles, and their glow, the brightest thing in the room, danced across his features. The tray also bore three glasses of sparkling apple juice.

"Hey, Mum only has one candle."

"There's no way thirty-four candles would fit on her special cupcake," Mark said.

"On the plus side, we don't have to worry about the smoke detector."

Mark sang the both of them the standard 'happy birthday' tune, and together, in sync, Bridget and Martin blew out their candles. Mark flicked on the lights as Martin pulled out the candles, licking the frosting off the bottom, a wide grin on his face. "I'm almost ten!" he said.

"Oh, for the days of rounding _up_ one's age," Bridget said with a chuckle.

Mark and Martin each had a piece of the vanilla cake—like father, like son—and Bridget bit into her amazing, delicious cupcake, chocolate with salted caramel frosting.

"To Martin and Bridget on their shared birthday," said Mark, raising his glass. "The best son and wife a man could have."

"And to probably one of the last days that we'll just be a family of three," added Bridget.

They touched their glasses together, then took a long sip. "This is so much better than the other fizzy stuff we had before," said Martin.

She glanced to Mark with a smile; that champagne toast had been when she'd agreed to adopt Martin, and to marry his father, last year at Christmas. How much had happened since their birthday the year before.

"Next year I'll bake a cake," said Bridget. "And I'll pour chocolate sauce lava all over it."

Mark pointed his fork towards Bridget. "But only if you pile it up, broken and steaming, onto a plate first," he said.

Martin smirked, then giggled.

When they were done eating the cake, Mark stepped away to get Martin his presents. One was a tablet computer for him, on which he could play games and read (pre-loaded with his favourite books, including _The Little Prince_ ). His eyes lit up at the sight of it. "Oh my goodness! It's just like Mum's!" he said, holding the box to his chest. "It's the best present ever. I love it!"

"You still have another present," Mark said, holding up a smaller box.

Bridget smiled broadly in anticipation of Martin opening the second gift. She'd had some idea of how excited it would make him, but when he opened the box, realised what he was looking at, that her expectations had not been high enough.

"Oh my goodness!" he exclaimed. It was the keys to a miniature drivable car, silver in colour and greatly resembling the car his father drove. Then he looked all around himself. "Where is it?"

"Where do cars get parked?" Mark said.

Martin got to his feet faster than she'd ever seen him, racing out to the garage to see it. Bridget and Mark began to laugh.

"Can I drive it inside?" he called to them. "Can I?"

"No, Martin," said Mark, then to Bridget he said, "I'll go to him and explain." He then walked towards the garage.

With a smile still lingering on her lips, she reclined on the sofa, placing her hands upon her belly as she let out a big, satisfied sigh. As if in agreement, the baby delivered a pair of kicks to her bladder, making the need to go that much stronger. With a great groan she got herself to her feet.

"I'm going to take Martin for a little test drive up and down the street," Mark called.

"All right," she called back. "Stick to the pave—" Just then she realised her stretchy yoga pants were wet most of the way down her legs… and she still had to pee. "Mark, wait," she said, fully realising what this meant. "Come here."

He came back in from the garage. "Hm? Do you need help getting up? Oh, you're—what's that? Did you spill your juice?"

"No."

"Did you… not make it to the loo—"

" _No_ ," she said again with emphasis.

It was then that the penny dropped. Mark's face went pale. "Oh."

"Yes. _Oh_."

Fortunately, after that moment of shock, Mark snapped back into the version of himself who knew how to keep a level head in a crisis. He called for Martin to return from the garage.

"Martin, we're going to have to postpone your test drive."

Martin looked exceedingly disappointed. "No!" he said, exasperated.

"I'm afraid yes," Mark said.

"It's not fair! It's my birthday!"

"Martin," said Bridget, "it's the baby."

"It's _always_ the baby!" Martin said, surprising the two of them.

"Martin," Mark said again, more firmly. "The baby's coming. We have to go to the hospital as soon as possible. No one has control over that. Now I'm going to call Alberta to come watch you, and then we have to leave. I want you to apologise to your mum."

Martin set his jaw firmly, looked to Bridget, but said nothing.

"Martin. Now."

She could see his lower lip trembling, before he exclaimed abruptly, "I'm sorry I have to share you with a baby!" He then burst into tears and ran up the stairs.

…

Mark was at a loss for words at Martin's outburst. Bridget looked devastated.

"Mark, what on earth…" she began, trailing off, tears in her own eyes.

"Call Alberta," Mark said. "I will get to the bottom of what's going on with Martin. Are you having pain yet?"

She shook her head.

"Sit down, sit back. I'll be back as soon as I can with your hospital bag."

As she continued on to the loo, Mark took the stairs up two at a time to find Martin had gone to his own room. The door was shut, and through it he could hear Martin sobbing. Without knocking Mark went in.

"Dad!" he said, wiping his cheek, as if he had not expected that Mark would have followed him upstairs, or come in unannounced.

"You owe your mum an apology," Mark said sternly. "I don't know what has gotten into you. How could you speak that way to her?"

"It just came out." He looked down. "But if I have to share her with a baby, maybe it means she won't need me anymore, even though I can do lots of things a baby can't do."

"Why in the _world_ would you think that, Martin?" he said. "She loves you as much as always. With all of her heart, and then some." Remembering a conversation they'd once had, he added, "Remember what I said about there always being room for more love? That's never been more true."

"But it's different," he said. "I didn't come from _her_ stomach." In a quieter voice, he added tentatively, "She could go, too."

"What? Why would you think that?"

"My real mum left. Mum could go too after the baby comes. She might not want me either."

Mark had no immediate response, just lifted a hand to brush down over his own hair. Had all of these things been weighing on his young mind as the months went by, that Bridget would go as his own biological mother had?

"Martin," he said tenderly. "The woman that carried you in her stomach and had you at the hospital… she might have been your mother, but she's not your mum. Something went very wrong there. That is _not_ because of anything that you did." Martin looked up at his father; his eyes were red and very teary. "Your _real_ mum—who is downstairs waiting for me to take her to the hospital—loves you so much that she did the extra paperwork to make you as much her child as the baby she's about to have. Do you understand?"

Martin blinked, then nodded.

"We have had to make a lot of preparations for the baby's coming, and I'm sorry if that's ever made you feel we don't love you as much, because we do, and always will. Nothing could make us love you less. You know I'm not going anywhere. She's not going anywhere," Mark said. "Have I ever lied to you?"

He shook his head.

Mark's mobile began to chirp insistently with a message, with the tone he recognised as Bridget's. He looked to it. The message read:

 _OWWWWW PAIN NOW—HURRY PLS_

"Martin, I have to get Mum's bag then get downstairs, and take her as soon as Alberta—"

His phone chirped again.

 _ALBERTA CANT COME. WHAT TO DO W MARTIN? CANT WAIT FOR PARENTS TO GET HERE. SURE THAT FRIENDS ALL OUT GETTING PISSED._

"Change of plan," said Mark decisively. "Get on your shoes. You get to be a part of this, too."

"Really?"

Mark nodded. Martin showed the first hint of a smile, then jumped down off of his bed to get the trainers that were most like Bridget's.

"I'll go say I really didn't mean it," said Martin, his expression haunted. "Will she believe me?"

"I think there's a _very_ good chance," Mark said. Martin offered another, larger smile, then ran out of the bedroom so quickly that Mark called after him, "Slow down! Don't want to have to visit A &E, too."

Then Mark messaged Bridget back:

 _Martin incoming. Will explain details later. He's very sorry._

Then he added:

 _Hope three's not a crowd in the maternity ward._

When he got downstairs with the hospital bag, he found Martin holding Bridget's hand as she laid there, grimacing through a labour pain.

"She's strong," Martin said. "I had to hold the outside of her hand."

Mark leant down, asked quietly, "She believed you?"

He nodded.

"I knew he couldn't have meant it," Bridget said through clenched teeth. She then relaxed a little as the pain passed, then looked to Martin and smiled. "Well. Looks like you're going to be a big brother soon. Are you ready? We're going to need your help… I don't have a brother or sister, and neither does your dad. You're going to be the first of any of us to have this important responsibility."

Despite his outburst of just a few moments before, Martin offered a big smile, looking almost proud. "I think I can be a really good big brother."

…

Mark rang up both his parents and hers; while Mark's mother and father wouldn't be able to drive down that night due to driving licence restrictions, Mr and Mrs Jones said they'd be on the road in no time at all and would come directly to the hospital. Mark sat holding her hand as the contractions got closer and closer together; Martin sat in the room with them until Pam Jones arrived, and then she was able to watch over the boy when it was time to go into the delivery theatre.

Approximately nine hours after it had all begun, little Olivia Darcy made her appearance in the world at 5.30 a.m. on the tenth of November, weighing in at seven pounds, seven ounces.

"Great," Bridget said through the haze of her meds and her exhaustion, "already recording her weight for posterity."

This had made Mark chuckle, before he'd bent to kiss her on the forehead.

He was able to return to the room before she was, awakening her parents and Martin, who then looked to him expectantly.

Mark's tired grin said it all. "Mum and baby are doing just fine," he said, then relayed the vital birth statistics.

Pam jumped to her feet, clasping her hands momentarily. "Oh, Mark," she said. "So happy to hear." She reached for his hands. "You must be excited—oh, I mean exhausted, but, well, both."

He smiled wanly. He _was_ tired, but also exhilarated. "Yes, both." He looked to Martin. "How are _you_ doing?"

"I'm okay," he said, then yawned. "I don't feel any different."

At Pam and Colin's quizzical looks, he explained, "He's a big brother now."

"Ahh," said Colin. "Such a happy day. Congratulations, son." He held out his hand, but instead of shaking it, he pulled Mark into a hug. "I'm so pleased to have a granddaughter, now, too," he said, his voice choking with emotion.

Mark drew back, patting Colin's shoulder. "I think they're going to have her rest for a while. I'll stay with them. If you want to go back to the house, take Martin and make something to eat, have a lie-down…"

"Certainly, Mark, we'd be happy to get things ready for your coming home."

"I want to see Mum first," declared Martin.

"Of course," Mark said. "They'll bring her and the baby here soon, and you can say hello." Mark crouched to be closer to Martin's eye level. "Have you been taking good care of Granny Pam and Grandpa Colin?"

He nodded, then whispered, "Am I doing all right so far?"

Mark felt emotion well in his throat, and he held his arms out to take his son into a tight hug. "So far, Martin, you're doing great."

 **9 December**

It had been a hell of a month, but now, resting in the peace of the firelight with a sleeping babe in arms, a dozing eight-year-old, and an attentive husband was the best respite that Bridget could think of.

"Mark?" she asked quietly.

"Yes, darling?"

"Do you think he…" She glanced down to Martin. "…is _really_ over what was bothering him before Olivia came?"

Mark had, in the hours after the birth, once they were alone, told her all about the conversation that he'd had with Martin after the outburst. How the boy had been afraid that a new baby meant she would no longer need to have him around, would no longer love him, would leave him as his birth mother had done… it had broken her heart, but Mark had handled it expertly before they'd even left for the hospital, and Martin had seemed his usual self again in no time at all.

"I do," Mark said; Martin looked so sweet sitting on his father's lap, though compared to the baby, he seemed so much bigger and lankier than even a month before. "I've been keeping tabs. He's not been quite as adversarial."

Bridget nodded. "You're right," she said, reaching a hand to touch the boy's soft brown curls. "How much he wants to help with the little tasks."

Martin stirred, opening his eyes, smiling a little. "Are you talking about me?" he asked, sitting up straighter in his father's lap.

"Yes, we are," Mark said. "How wonderful you've been with Olivia."

He looked very proud. "I think she likes me," Martin said.

"Of course she does."

"She smiles and giggles when I talk to her," Martin said. He held out his hand and stroked her tiny fingers. "She's so small. I can't believe it."

"You were once that small," Mark said.

"Did I have light hair, too?"

"Nope," Mark said. "You've always had dark hair like me."

"And Olivia has light hair like our mum," said Martin, who got closer to Bridget, to look more closely at Olivia, who was waking. "Did I always have brown eyes too?"

"Actually," said Mark, "yours happened to be dark blue, too, like Olivia's."

"Wow. Really?" he asked.

Watching Martin wiggle his finger at Olivia, watching him pull faces and eliciting soft, happy sounds from her, filled Bridget's heart with joy. "Oh, look!" Martin said. "She grabbed my finger!"

"So she did," said Bridget, laughing lightly to herself. "Quite a grip for being a month old, eh?"

"She sure does. Wow." He looked up into Bridget's eyes; his happiness was evident in his smile. "I like being a big brother. She's pretty cool. She can even play with my cars when she's bigger."

A sure sign of acceptance.

…

The baby was in her bassinette, and Martin was tucked in for bed, fast asleep after a bit of reading by his dad. Bridget was in the en suite brushing out her hair when Mark came in behind her, putting his arms around her waist, nuzzling lovingly into her neck.

"Mmm," she said with a sigh, "that feels _lovely_."

"Good," he murmured. "That was my intention." He met her gaze through the proxy of the mirror. "The children are asleep, the littlest one for who knows how long. Up for a little cuddling?"

She smiled. Children. Who would have thought two years ago she would so soon be able to say she had children? He took her smile as an answer to his question, and began tracing his fingers over her stomach and hips. She did not correct the misapprehension, because she was indeed very much in the mood for cuddling.

He was gentle, tender, and caring, not going any further than they should so soon after Olivia's birth; being in his arms, held lovingly and reassuringly, being kissed within an inch of her life, was utter bliss.

"I'm going to have to rack this year up as a win," she said, sighing. "Two children, a husband, a new home… I've never been happier." She yawned. "Or, honestly, more knackered."

She felt him laugh low in his throat. "Totally understandable," he said. "Caring for a tiny, helpless being, albeit a very cute one… it's tiring."

"I don't know how anyone does it on their own," she said. "Mad respect." She raised her head to meet his eyes. "How did you do it alone, with Martin?"

"I brought on Alberta pretty early on," he said. "And I had the support of my mother and father."

"But they're up north. You must have felt overwhelmed on your own," she said.

"I did," he said. "Thank goodness we have each other this time 'round."

She smiled, then gave him a sweet kiss.

 **The end.**


End file.
